Goin' Down to Mama's

Sunday Morning Serenity

Last week, this passage from Isaiah was a “verse of the day” on Biblegateway.com:

But those who wait on the Lord 
Shall renew their strength; 
They shall mount up with wings like eagles, 
They shall run and not be weary, 
They shall walk and not faint.
Isaiah 40:31

I’ve read that verse before, but this time I zeroed in on the first few words: “those who wait on the Lord.”

It doesn’t say “those who seek the Lord” but those who wait on Him. I’ve thought about that all week, as we admitted Daddy to the hospital and waited for doctors to decide on his best plan of care while we prayed for God’s guidance and healing. I’ve thought about it as we’ve all waited to see what will happen next with the pandemic we’re all living in and with; as we’ve waited for protest to transform into positive, lasting change.

Wait on the Lord.

Waiting is not easy for me. Ask my very patient husband. He says my patience is selective: I can spend two weeks working on the same paragraph in a book manuscript, but don’t ask me to paint anything—a chair, a wall, a room—because I’ll get in such a hurry that I’ll make a big ole mess.

That’s the thing about rushing into anything. It often ends in a big ole mess.

Answers don’t always come the minute we think they should. And sometimes the smartest action to take is none at all.

Wait on the Lord.

Sunday Morning Serenity

Dave and I were talking one time after I had been home to visit my parents, and I said, with some degree of surprise and self-revelation, “You know, I think I might actually be a lot like Daddy.” At which point Dave laughed really loud and said, “You think so?”

Apparently, this was not a shocking revelation to my husband, as it was to me. Why my shock? Daddy and I can drive each other jeepers. With the exception of music and shoes (he had nothing to do with the heinous ones I'm wearing in this picture), we don’t agree on much of anything. And yet our brains work the same way. He has accused me, on more than one occasion, of being “one of those wild-eyed liberals.” To which I respond, in my best Edith Bunker voice, “AH-chie!”

The strangest turnabout, since Daddy has gotten older and “extinguished” (his word for “distinguished”) is that he has developed parental amnesia: Any good character I have, I was born with or developed on my own. (As if I weren’t taught decency and compassion by both my parents.) I made good grades on my own. (Not because my parents both sacrificed to pay for school and did anything else they could to help me succeed.) I made it through two universities by myself. (Daddy was working triple shifts in a paper mill to pay my tuition.) I’ve had a great career. (See all of the above.)

On past Father’s Days, I’ve thanked my “June Bug” for all the fun stuff—the fishing trips and beach trips, the creeks waded, the Christmas trees loaded. But today I want to thank him for the hard stuff—the education provided, the confidence built, the promise of “you can do anything.”

I’m very blessed.

Happy Father’s Day, June Bug!

Sunday Morning Serenity

Yesterday, I deep-cleaned. Not my house—I haven’t gone completely off the deep end—but the Story Shack.

I must’ve vacuumed up enough Cheeto hair to weave an area rug. Stickie notes and scraps of paper bearing outdated reminders were all over my desk. Now they’re gone. Dust everywhere. Gone. Heinous floor. Vacuumed and twice-Swiffered. Cozy throw was fragrant and not in a good way. Now it smells like Tide. Trash emptied. Dehumidifier vents cleaned with Windex and a Q-tip. Cheeto’s water bowl freshened up. New hand vac and my favorite gardenia candles on order.

Apparently, I had been living that “nose blind” commercial. It’s like I just woke up all of a sudden, looked around, and made like Bette Davis: “What a dump.”

I had the same response when I looked in the mirror. Y’all. How did this happen? I used to have a waist, I really did. I’ve got pictures to prove it. After months of staying close to home and ordering groceries on the internet and not going to the hair salon . . . Yikes. When I finally made it back to my friend Kim’s salon, my hair was way down my back, three different colors (I tried the at-home thing), and about that many textures—flat on top, frizzy on bottom, halfway decent in the middle. At least now I have good hair. The waist? Well, I’ve started walking, mask in hand in case I encounter anybody who won’t distance.

I live in skorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops. Except for my wedding rings and another ring Mama gave me, I don’t wear jewelry any more. I haven’t been to the nail salon since March. Suddenly, I’m listening to Bob Dylan and telling Dave we need to grow our own vegetables and keep livestock in the back yard. What’s next—tie-dye and macrame?

If you’ve been cloistered like we have, are you amazed by how much stuff you’ve always done to present yourself to other people? I’ve always loved jewelry—I mean seriously loved it. But now I don’t wear it. Why is that? It doesn’t look or feel any different just because no one will see it but Dave and me. Same with shoes. Ask any of my loved ones and they will tell you: I have always been a shoe girl. With one or two exceptions, I haven’t worn anything but flip-flops since the weather got warm. I have no idea why.

Part of it is just the time factor. I’m working from home four days a week, trying to meet a September book deadline, and helping to keep groceries and necessities stocked without getting around people because this virus is bad in our city and county. But I think there’s more to it than that.

I feel myself “divesting.” Or maybe a better word is shedding—throwing off what I don’t need so there’s more time for what I do. I may not put on makeup everyday, but I do take time away from work to have lunch with Dave and break up our day together. Maybe I’m giving the jewelry a rest, but I try to water the few containers we planted because they bring us joy. I cook more of our suppers because Dave has been doing that for, oh, a couple of years now, and I figure he could use a break. (However, I do remind him from time to time that I would not object to spending money on a grill to replace the one we wore out. I do miss having the husband at the grill.)

I think there’s some shedding going on out there in the Big World, too—trying to throw off old, negative ideas and move forward, leaving room only for what’s right and just and true.

And on a personal level, I'm working to clean house, to throw out whatever serves no purpose and never belonged there in the first place, and welcome the fresh air.

Sunday Morning Serenity

I read somewhere that there’s a shortage of birdseed now. Apparently, stress and confinement have pushed many of us from Netflix and board games to the hard stuff: birding. Which means Mama is way ahead of the curve because she has been feeding and watching birds for decades.

When I visit my parents on their deck, we have to stop talking and be very still whenever we’re visited by the mother wren who has a nest in an ornamental birdhouse on a bookcase out there. She has come to feed her babies and doesn’t like noise or sudden movement. So MY “mama bird” instructs us to be very still and quiet so that the baby birds can be properly fed.

My parents are personally acquainted with all the wildlife in their backyard, from “that old crow” who comes to eat the leftover biscuits they scatter on the banister to the lizard who lives behind their outdoor thermometer. There’s even a wasp on the step railing who “comes here all the time.”

Both of my parents have always found solace in nature. My childhood was filled with trips to a local lake to fish (I never liked to fish but I liked the lake) and long walks in the woods, where there were muscadines to eat and creeks to wade.

On my worst days, when the Big World seems unfixable, the pain and grief insurmountable, I find comfort in nature. Right now, both doors of the Story Shack are open to the birds calling. I’m looking out at a towering mimosa—a “trash tree” by Dave’s estimation, but I think it’s pretty. I’m watching a chipmunk stand on a paper plate and eat Cheeto’s leftovers, which I put out on the Story Shack porch specifically for the chipmunk. (Like mother, like daughter.)

The natural world God gave us is such a beautiful place. Humans added the ugliness. I have hope that we can subtract it, hope that comes, in part, from watching my mother respect the needs of all other mothers—even the ones with feathers—to love and nurture their children, to give them strength for the world outside. I’m going to follow her lead.

[Image by Chance Agrella @ freerangestock.com]